


Archive of Feelings or How Sherlock is like a Cat

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Harry's on the sauce, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Appropriation of his laptop forces John to seek an alternative source for his writing. But when he boots up Sherlock's laptop he never expects to find a file listing every time Sherlock has deleted a memory of John. And there are hundreds of them. What does this mean? Is it Sherlock's way of dealing with untoward behavior? Or was there another reason behind John seeing the mystery file?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Archive of Feelings or How Sherlock is like a Cat

**Author's Note:**

> This Fic hasn't been Beta'd. Any mistakes are my own. If mistakes are found, it's because I wrote this Fic in four hours on no sleep. I'm all hopped up on Mountain Dew!  
> Some references to BBC Sherlock canon. But no real timeline other than after Baskerville. Riechen never happened!!! Deny all!  
> Also, there are sexy times involved. If you're not into that...what are you doing reading Johnlock Fanfiction?  
> 

_So very much like a cat,_ John thought, not for the first time, as Sherlock leapt up from his position on the couch without warning and darted down the hall towards his bedroom. He could be still for hours on end and then suddenly he was off, rushing from corner to corner of their flat, frantic in his pursuit of John knew not what. He used to wonder how it was that Sherlock could sit still for such long periods of time without cramping, seeing as he must clearly be magnesium deficient, along with every other vitamin and mineral, but eventually he came to the realization that Sherlock was simply ignoring his body’s complaints as he did everything else. He was also prone to fits of rage. He reminded John of a cat his grandmother had when he was a boy. Damn thing wouldn’t let anyone else near him, just John. Harry was always jealous. Sherlock was also graceful, calculating, charming and, dare he say, sleek, like a cat. _Strange,_ he thought, _I’ve always been more of a dog person._

  
“Have you seen that copy of the Anglo Baltic News?” Sherlock asked.

  
John looked up from his laptop to see several bits of paper go sailing across the living room.

  
“What copy of the Anglo Baltic News?” He asked in return.

  
“ _The_ copy,” he shouted, as if it should be obvious. A rather large book and a stack of magazines were flung next in his hair-brained pursuit.

  
“You’re the observant one, not me. You find it,” he replied, turning back to his laptop. He received a scowl in return, sass not appreciated it said. He smiled. It was significantly more difficult concentrating on his blog when Sherlock was frantic like this. It was just too much fun to watch. Though he did do his best not to be so obvious about it, this was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with.

  
“You could help me, instead of just staring,” his voice accused from under the table. How did he do that?

  
“What the hell do you need a copy of the Anglo Baltic News for anyway?”

  
“A Case, John,” he huffed as he crawled backwards out from under the table. “I need updates anyway I can get them since the Latvian Government refuses to cooperate with me any longer.”

  
John raised his eyebrows at that. “What did you do to piss off the Latvian Government? No, I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

  
“It’s not my fault Mr. Dombrovskis didn’t like the results I gave him.” The lamp was broke. How had he broken the lamp without John noticing? Did that just happen or had he just noticed?

  
“Who’s Mr. Dombrovskis?” John asked against his better judgment.

  
“The Prime Minister of Latvia, of course. Do keep up with the times, John,” he chastised. As if knowing such a thing was common knowledge. John rolled his eyes, but was interrupted halfway through by the sudden upending of his chair. His perception of the ceiling swung wildly as he was tipped sideways. He and the laptop both spilled out onto the floor as Sherlock looked under the over turned chair.

 

Without moving from his new position he evaluated how quickly he could get his hands around his flatmates neck before Mycroft’s minions reported the attempted homicide to their boss and he was dragged out by men in black Kevlar suits.

  
“You do know I was in the chair when you did that?” John asked the carpet, dryly.

  
“It was a calculated risk. The probability of the Newspaper being under your chair was slightly higher than the probability that you could retaliate quickly enough to be effective. Thirty-two minutes if I successfully removed all of his cameras, by the way, if you were wondering. Two if I didn’t.”

  
John growled as he sat up. No use spending the rest of his life in jail, or worse, should Mycroft discover his brother’s dead body, not when there were far more satisfying ways to make Sherlock suffer.

  
“Doesn’t the Latvian Newspaper have an online source you could read?”

  
Sherlock stopped. He turned without looking at John, as if an epiphany had occurred, not John’s sound advice. Before he could react, Sherlock was diving towards him, and his laptop was snatched out of his grasp.

  
“Hey! Wait a damn minute!” He leapt up and followed Sherlock to the couch. He reached to take his computer back but the git kept walking until he was standing atop the furniture with the appropriated item held aloft, just out of John’s reach.

  
“Give it back, you bloody giraffe!” He stood with his arms crossed. He refused to jump for it.

“I need it. Go do something else,” Sherlock commanded.

  
John scoffed. “I certainly will not! I was using that. You have one of your own, you know.”

  
“It’s dead. I need this one.”

  
“Go bloody plug it in then.”

  
“You plug it in. I haven’t the time. Case, John.”

  
John closed his eyes and counted to ten. “I can’t just use yours. I was writing. I can’t very well start over from scratch.”

  
“You hadn’t written anything in seventeen minutes before I took it, not counting the time spent on the floor. Most likely you were reading the comments from previous entries.”

He opened the computer and looked at the screen. A smug smile appeared when he turned the screen towards him, showing the comment section he had indeed been looking at.

  
“Not the point. I was _attempting_ to write and I can’t from your computer.” He held his hand out and waited. They stood at a stalemate for three minutes.

John turned with military precision and walked away. Damn him. Someday soon John was going to plant a facer on the insufferable wanker and it would be all Sherlock’s fault. He burst into Sherlock’s room, the door banged against the wall with a satisfying thud, and spotted the laptop just peeking out from under his bed. The charger was still plugged in next to his side table, the end placed three inches from the laptop. John growled under his breath. _Insufferable!_ He flopped down on Sherlock’s bed and retrieved the computer from off the floor. He’d plug the bloody thing in and when it was fully charged, he’d slap Sherlock over the head with it and take his back. The whirl of the fan kicked on when he plugged it in and John sat back against the headboard to wait for it to reboot. He put his shoes up on the bed and kicked at the covers in quiet aggression. The complexity of his flatmate never ceased to amaze him, as he took in Sherlock’s bedroom. How a man could be so utterly disorganized, so lazy and thoughtless, but still be the most observant, the most brilliant. It made no sense, but here was the proof. His bedroom was a small window into what his Mind Palace probably looked like. Empty of clutter, miraculously, but still somehow stuffed to the brim with bits of his personality. Books and mementos from cases and scientific equipment not currently being used on the kitchen table, but everything in its place. One would think, if one knew Sherlock at all, that there would at least be a body part or two lying about. He ducked under the bed for a peak, just in case. Nothing but dust bunnies Mrs. Hudson had missed and a sock.

When he sat back up the laptop was back on. _Strange,_ he thought, _there’s no password prompt._ Of course. Sherlock had forgotten to shut it down and it had just reverted back to the last function. Curiosity got the better of him and since Sherlock clearly had no concept of privacy when it came to John’s things, he didn’t feel all that bad about clicking the tabs at the bottom of the start menu. At least a half dozen web pages were open. One on the nesting habits of the American Bald Eagle, one on synthetic diamonds and propaganda from the African mining companies on how they were ruining the market, and a few on the stock market exchange. John sighed. What did he really expect? Porn? He got a chuckle out of that. He decided to dig deeper and search the history log for anything even remotely titillating. Nothing for it. Just more of the same. There was another tab opened that wasn’t an internet page. Something called Archive of Feelings. He frowned in confusion. It was a PDF file in the Office Word program.

He clicked on it, intrigued enough by Sherlock using the word feelings at all. Was he even aware of such things? Maybe that was why he wrote them down. Such a rare occurrence probably should be recorded.

Under the title it read, “Deleted memories. Archived for future reference.” The sheer amount of information after that overwhelmed John at first. Sherlock had written an awful lot and it took a minute to get the flow of it. Times, dates, abbreviations for things he didn’t understand, the lot of it was tangled but eventually he found a pattern. What he discovered made his stomach drop. From what he could gather, Sherlock had been deleting memories of John. Things John had said or done, moments that really had no rhyme or reason as far as he could tell. Why the hell would he do such a thing? And what was the point of deleting it if he was recording it in the computer anyway? He wanted to remember what he was going to make himself forget? It was mad. He clicked back to the top and started over, reading the very first entry to make sense of the beginning of this farce.

_29-01-2010 21:39 Angelo’s_  
_John makes awkward attempt to chat up. Offered excuse and set straight. Ignored feelings._

_30-01-2010 0:04 Angelo’s_  
_John proves useful in suspect chase. Ignored feelings._

_30-01-2010 0:20 Baker Street_  
_Possibly just Adrenaline high? Ignored feelings._

_30-01-2010 01:50 R.K.F.E.C_  
_John proves useful again. I.F._

John stared at the screen, trying to make sense of it. He was glad no one was around to see his blush, for the mere mention of his failed attempted at ‘Chatting Sherlock up' was embarrassing enough but Sherlock having written it down? Horrifying. He hoped the mad bastard really had deleted it. What was all this about ignored feelings though? What the hell did that mean? He remembered the moments Sherlock mentioned, quite clearly because he had feelings of his own attached to the moments, but Sherlock didn’t feel the same way. Or did he? Was that why he was deleting the memories? Or was he just ignoring John’s feelings? John quickly resumed reading, trying to piece together some sort of narrative. Most entries were frustratingly vague. Things like ‘John understands. I.F.' and ‘John amuses. I.F.' One caught his eye.

_03-03-2010 17:00 Baker Street_  
_John goes out tonight. I.F. Sabotage may be needed._

_03-03-2010 22:23 Baker Street_  
_Sabotage somewhat successful. More data needed._

_04-03-2010 03:50 Baker Street_  
_Fear of Loss Crippling. I.F. Delete at once!_

So, he didn’t want to remember the night he and Sarah had almost been killed? Well neither did John! And what a rank bastard, fully admitting to sabotaging his and Sarah’s date! He knew it! It was seconds after he stood to confront Sherlock that he realized he wasn’t meant to have seen this strange file of his flatmates. He sat back down slowly. What did he do? He couldn’t very well ignore having seen it. He glanced back down. There were probably hundreds of memories written down in there. It sent an ache to John’s stomach to think of all the time Sherlock had deleted. No wonder he never seemed to remember anything John said! He chuckled morosely at the thought.

_16-04-2010 06:15 Baker Street_  
_John leaves door open. Hear John call out during nightmare. Resist assistance, as results very. I.F._

_30-04-2010 04:05 Baker Street_  
_John responds favourably to Brahms. Nightmares decreased by 67% Do not Delete._

_01-05-2010 09:18 Baker Street_  
_John confronts about violin playing. Angry_ , _demands I stop. Doesn’t remember nightmares. If nightmares continue, violin continues. D.N.D._

John ran his fingers through his hair. Christ, what did this mean? _He was serenading me to sleep?_ More vague entries continue, some with the Do not delete abbreviation attached. He wished they explained more. He scrolled down, quickly searching for longer posts.

_07-09-2010 02:19 Baker Street_  
_John returned from night out with Mike. Blood Alcohol level .12+ Chance encounter in hallway after shower. John exhibits physical reaction to my nearly nude appearance. Elevated heart rate/breathing, possible dilated pupils(hard to tell, dark in hallway), tumescence. Awkward exchange. Delete memory immediately!_

_07-09-2010 04:37 Baker Street_  
_Cannot seem to delete previous entry. Further attempts needed at a later date._

John buried his face in his hands. He was really done for. Here lies John Hamish Watson. He died as he lived, an embarrassment to all mankind. Of course he remembered exactly the night in question. Mike’s cousin was having a Stag Do and Mike had invited John to come. He had just broken up with…Kelly? Katherine? Someone, and he was feeling very put out, so he had agreed. Several shots of tequila later he had stumbled up the stairs to the flat, bumbling his way toward the loo for a last minute piss, when out walked Sherlock, glistening wet, in nothing but a towel. John didn’t remember much other than that. He certainly didn’t remember getting obviously 'tumescent' but the All Seeing Eye had been the subject of said 'tumescence', hadn’t he? Lord. He should have moved out months ago. He should have known Sherlock knew. Of course he did. John just thanked his lucky stars that despite Sherlock’s usual lack of tact, he hadn’t broached the subject. He thought he had done a pretty good job of silencing those thoughts and the thoughts of others, when they popped up, but not so according to Sherlock. It was so rampant in fact that Sherlock had taken to deleting the uncomfortable moments, rather than put up with them. John dropped the laptop, closed the lid, and sat back against the headboard once more. What was he supposed to do now? Carry on as if nothing was wrong? Everything was wrong! How long could he expect Sherlock to keep deleting these things before his brain turned to Swiss cheese and he simply gave up trying to live with him? Honestly, John had sort of assumed something catastrophic would have to happen to force them apart, a death for instance. But this, this quirk you could call it, was going to be the thing that drove them apart. How utterly boring. Just the thing Sherlock hated the most. He found himself rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around his knees in a classic child-like pose of security. Completely useless but instinctual. He didn’t want to lose Sherlock. His mad, brilliant, scatterbrained, best friend. Sherlock was the greatest thing to ever happen to him. And nothing great had ever happened to John. Eventful maybe, but not great. Not until Sherlock had stripped John bare with his eyes that day at Bart’s. A groan escaped, loud and mournful, from his chest and he bashed his forehead into his knees to keep from making it worse by crying. How pathetic. If Sherlock could see him now!

  
“John,” Sherlock’s whisper filtered through the door. Cautious, wary.

Oh, Christ, he knew. He knew! John wrenched the door wide and blew past Sherlock without a glance. He thanked God that he had started placing his mobile and wallet on the table by the door because he barely remembered to grab them on the way out. Hell, he was lucky he had been wearing shoes. He practically ran down the street, not really paying attention to his direction, not caring, just needing to be away. He ended up on the other side of Regent’s Park before his mobile went off.

_Please come back. SH_

He shoved the phone back into his pocket. The ‘please’ alone would have stopped him on any other day, but not today. Not after… just no. He walked and walked until his feet grew sore and his leg gave a long forgotten twinge. He needed to stop, collect his thoughts, decide what to do. There was a café not too far from his location, two blocks south if he remembered correctly, so he headed that direction. The crowd was blessedly thin when he arrived, he was in and out with his order in minutes. The patio was deserted so he took his fancy iced coffee outside and sat at a table. No more than thirty seconds passed before his mobile went off again. He almost didn’t look at the screen but when he did and discovered it was Harry, he answered out of curiosity. They hadn’t spoken in months.

  
“Hello?”

  
“Johnny? Oh, thank God. Are you all right?”

  
“Course I’m all right. What’s wrong?”

  
“What’s wrong?” She scoffed. “Your bastard of a flatmate had me scared to death. He made it sound like you were possibly contemplating murder. That’s what’s wrong!”

  
“Jesus,” John groaned. He shoved the iced coffee away in frustration. Of course Sherlock would sick his sister on him.

  
“What happened? Talk to me.”

  
“I don’t want to talk about it, Harry. It’s personal.”

  
“You unbelievable prick. You know every sordid detail about my failed marriage and you’re going to pull some shit like this on me?”

  
“I didn’t ask to know those things! You and your lose tongue,” he started to say but stopped. She inferred the rest. The other line grew quiet. “Christ, I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean…I just meant…”

  
“I know what you meant. It’s all right. You’re right. I did get a bit much toward the end. I know that. But don’t you see how much I needed you, what it meant to me to be able to talk to someone about what I was going through?”

  
“Yeah, I get it.”

  
“So? You going to tell me what happened? Your flatmate hasn’t spoken to me the entire time you two have lived together and then all of a sudden I get a frantic call from him saying, ’He’s gone, Harriet. He’s upset, you have to calm him down.’ What the hell am I supposed to make of that?”

  
“I,” he looked up at the awning above his head, “Hell, I don’t know.”

  
“Just tell me what happened. I thought you guys were okay. Did he do some sort of experiment on you?”

  
John laughed at that. “No. Not lately. That I could have handled.”

  
“Then what?”

  
“He…deleted me.”

  
“He what?”

  
John huffed in annoyance. How was he supposed to explain Sherlock’s ludicrous ability to get rid of unwanted information? If it were a normal thing everyone would do it. “It’s this thing he does. You know how I explained before, how he has this ridiculous brain that basically stores everything?”

  
“Yeah?”

  
“Well, the way he described it to me was that it’s like a hard drive and he only keeps information that he finds useful. Everything else he deletes.”

  
“Like the Solar System?”

  
“Yeah, like the Solar System.” He couldn’t help but smile. “So, I was on his laptop today and I accidentally read something personal. He’s been keeping a sort of journal. He writes down all the times that he’s deleted a memory.”

  
“You said he deleted you,” she said, confused still.

  
“He deletes memories of me. Things that I’ve said or done,” he put his head down on the table, embarrassed and scared anew. How impossible a situation.

  
“Why would he do that? That’s crazy.”

  
“It’s not so crazy. If you knew him, you’d understand.”

  
“Knew what? Explain it.”

  
“He doesn’t like to feel…anything, I guess. I made him uncomfortable,” he tried to explain.

  
“How? By being nice? That’s bullocks.”

  
“Not just nice. Too nice,” he whispered, ashamed.

  
“I don’t understand, Johnny. What are you saying?”

  
Christ, he had to say it, didn’t he? Well, there were worse people he could say it to. Harry, at least, would understand.

  
“I love him,” he whispered.

  
“You what?”

  
“I love him, God damn it. That’s what he’s deleting. His massive intellect spots it every time I slip up and it makes him sick so he deletes it!”

  
Harry sucked in an audible breath on the other line. She didn’t speak for an indeterminable amount of time.

  
“Are you still there?” He asked.

  
“Yeah,” she whispered. “You really surprised me, big brother. I can honestly say I didn’t see that one coming.”

  
“Yeah, me either,” he chuckled.

  
“How long have you known?”

  
“Since pretty much day one. Well, maybe day two. It was an eventful day.” Looked at a flat, went to a crime scene, got kidnapped, texted a murderer, went to dinner, chased a murderer, witnessed a drugs bust, killed a man, had another dinner.

  
“You’ve said before that he’s a hard man to live with. What happened to that?”

  
“Oh, that’s still completely true. I mean, the whole reason all of this even happened was because he stole my laptop and forced me to use his instead. For absolutely no reason other than he couldn’t be arsed to walk to his bedroom.”

  
“But you love him regardless,” she commented.

  
“Yes. I honestly tried not to. I knew it wouldn’t amount to anything. He basically warned me off the first time I tried, humiliatingly, to feel him out.”

  
“Christ. I’m really sorry for all those times Mike and I teased you. You could have said something. I would have shut up.”

  
“It’s all right. It wasn’t just you guys. I’ve been appallingly poor at hiding it apparently. Why I thought Sherlock didn’t notice, I have no idea. I guess because he doesn’t spare my feelings in any other sense so I just assumed he wouldn’t there either.”

  
“Don’t you think maybe that’s a sign?”

  
“How’d you mean?”

  
“He clearly knew, yeah? Why didn’t he say something? He’s this colossal prick in every other way, but let’s you continue on having dirty feelings all over him? Why?”

  
“Hell. I don’t know. Errand boys are hard to come by?” He chuckled without humour. He was glad Harry wasn’t here in front of him. She couldn’t see the tear he casually brushed aside.

  
“John Watson. Could you have picked a worse man to fall in love with?” She chastised.

  
“Probably not, no. But I have to say in my defense, he can be quite spectacular. Infinitely fantastic. Utterly amazing really.”

  
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I hope you two can figure this out. Just go home. Have a chat.”

  
“Not as simple as that.” He wondered where he would go when Sherlock kicked him out. Harry’s was right out. He loved her, and sure, luck was on his side tonight and she had been sober, but it never lasted long. Maybe he could crash at Mike’s.

  
“Listen, he’s probably some sort of alien but he did sound genuinely worried for you when he called. Just go home, all right? Please.”

  
“All right,” he placated.

  
“Promise?”

  
Damn her. “Promise.”

  
“Okay, good luck. I’m here if you need me.”

  
“Thanks.”

  
“Love you.”

  
“Love you too.” He hung up. When he looked down at the screen he was surprised to see he had twelve missed calls, eight voice mails and fourteen missed messages. Greg, Molly, Mike, Mrs. Hudson and even Sarah had tried to reach him. He shook his head and laughed. Hell, maybe Harry was right. Maybe Sherlock was worried about him. He spent the next half an hour returning calls and assuring everyone that he was in fact all right and would return home shortly. He didn’t tell anyone else what had happened. The fact that he had told a chronic alcoholic was bad enough. He had purposefully left out when he planned on returning home to Baker Street. It was too soon. He still didn’t know what to do or say. The phone chirped. Another text.

_I’m sorry. Come home when you’re ready. SH_

_Still reading my mind, even halfway across town,_ John thought. He swallowed a lump that formed in his throat. He should be savoring the moment, if anything. A please and an apology in one day. Unheard of. Maybe things would be all right. Or maybe it was the quiet before the storm. Sherlock was sweetening him up for the kill.

Another chirp.

_We can talk about it if you want. SH_

_Or not if you don’t. It’s up to you. SH_

_Just wanted to let you know. Either way. SH_

_Are you coming home? SH_

_Sorry. Take your time. SH_

Five minutes passed.

_I demand that you come home this instant! SH_

John laughed at that. Some things didn’t change. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. Would this be his last taxi ride to 221b Baker Street? He felt melancholy and nervous and excited all at once. Excited? Ah, a fight was brewing. Of course he was excited. Sick, sick, sick. It was things like this that got him into trouble to begin with. The taxi stopped outside the flat. John caught the swoosh of the curtain as it swung back down. Sherlock knew he was home. His pulse hammered, thick and heavy in his veins, causing his hand to tremble as he pulled the cash out to pay for the fare. The exit from the car was as graceless as ever, his feet dragged the concrete as he made his way forward.

  
Mrs. Hudson beat him to the door. She swept him up in a hug and whispered in his ear. “Don’t let him bully you. He’s been a wreck since you left.” She smiled, patted his cheek and pushed him forward toward the steps.

He felt caught in a twilight zone between reality and dream. What he thought was true might not be and vice versa. Was Sherlock disgusted with him or not? Evidence seemed to say not, but how could he be anything else? He trudged up the stairs, paused for a brief second at the landing between the door to the flat and his room upstairs. He opened the door to the flat. Never let it be said that he was a total coward.

  
“So, you do want to talk,” Sherlock said from his place in front of the window. Hands held behind his back, he faced the street, not looking as he spoke.

  
“I suppose so.”

  
“I’d like to start off by saying I’m disappointed in you, John.”

  
The statement was like a knife to the gut, swift and painful. Getting shot had hurt less. He must have visibly flinched, because Sherlock turned to look at him.

  
“Not for the reason you so obviously believe.”

  
John cocked his head, wary. “Then what?”

  
“After eighteen months, you still haven’t learned a thing about observation. Nothing about what it is that I do.”

  
“What…I don’t understand.”

  
“Clearly,” Sherlock growled. He stormed toward the coffee table, swiped his laptop off and thrust it at John in disgust. John didn’t take it. Sherlock nudged him with it. Still, John didn’t move. “Take it!”

  
He cleared his throat before answering. “No.”

  
“Why not?” Sherlock whinged.

  
“I already read it.”

  
“No, you clearly didn’t.”

  
“I did! I get it, okay! I’m not good enough to hide it, obviously, so you just made yourself forget about it. Honestly, I get it. It must be nice, really. I wish I had that gift. It would make all of this so much easier.”

  
“John,” he started to say, but John was already too tired to continue. He stopped whatever Sherlock was about to say with a hand.

  
“I can’t. I’m sorry. If it’s all right with you, I’m just going to go to bed. If arrangements need to be made, we can deal with it in the morning.” He turned to leave but before he made it to the door Sherlock's voice stopped him dead in his tracks. It was soft, quiet. Not a volume that he believed he had heard in 221b Baker Street before.

  
“February Fifth, Two Thousand Ten. John understands. That was from the night we went to New Scotland Yard to give Lestrade evidence on the Rutledge case. Donovan made a comment about my being unnaturally gifted, alluding that my ‘gifts’ were manufactured. You told her that what I did wasn’t a gift, that I worked really hard at it, to the detriment of everything else and that she would regret the day I stopped because then she would know what it was I did for them.”

  
John turned back around. Sherlock was seated on the couch. He didn’t look up from the laptop, ignored what must be John’s comically shocked face, and continued.

  
“February Eighteenth, Two Thousand Ten.  John amuses. We were walking home from Angelo’s and you asked me ‘What are two crows called?’”

  
“An attempted murder,” John finished quietly. Sherlock smirked, still, somehow, finding that stupid joke funny.

  
“Yes. You said the joke reminded you of me. I liked that.” He looked back to the laptop. “March Twenty-Third, Two Thousand Ten. John seems genuinely pleased with surprise shopping. Perhaps spontaneous trips for milk aren’t tedious.”

  
“That one shouldn’t count. You’ve bought milk three times in the last year.”

  
“Spontaneous, John. Do pay attention.”

  
“All right,” he agreed. “Please, go on.”

  
Sherlock nodded. “April Second, prepared April Fool prank involving fabricated deduction of John’s girl friend being with child. Resulting in subsequent knowledge: John wants children, not with current girl friend. Resulting fisticuffs worth current knowledge. Do Not Delete.”

  
John didn’t know whether to grin or scowl, so he sort of ended up doing both.

  
“April Third, John looks good with a black eye.”

  
Oh. How had he missed that one? There was a telling flush creeping up his face. Sherlock didn’t look up. Probably, he already knew.

  
“May Seventeenth, Call from A & E asking if John could confirm his holiday for the following week. No known holiday planned. Subsequent research reveals plans to go on holiday with girl friend, even though she is not good enough to bare his children. Ignore Feelings. Delete at own discretion.”

  
“Sherlock,” John tried to say something, anything. No words followed. He continued.

  
“September Third, John and girl friend tragically broken up. Try not to feel so good about it, would you?”

  
“I don’t even remember her name. Christ, we dated for five months.”

  
Sherlock smiled. A real one, rare and beautiful. “Kiley.”

  
“Kiley! I’m a twat. Why did you remember and I didn’t?”

  
“I remember everything.”

  
John was starting to get that, yeah. “Right-o.”

  
“September Seventh,” Sherlock started.

  
“Whoa! No! I read that one, move on please.”

  
“You’re sure?”

  
“Yes, you prat.” John fell onto the couch in a heap of embarrassed idiocy.

  
“Just so you know, I remember all of that as well.”

  
“Excellent! I’ll be sure to tell the grandkids. That I’ll never have.”

  
He didn’t respond right away. “John.”

  
“What?” He asked warily. Sure, he had liked the direction this game had gone but what was the point? Was he about to find out?

  
“I think you’re still not getting the point of this exercise.”

  
“I know I’m not.”

  
“Hmm,” he hummed. “Perhaps I should skip towards the end. You can always catch up on the middle later.”

  
“Okay,” he agreed.

  
“July First, Two Thousand Twelve, John is still being frustratingly obtuse. Must construct less elaborate plan. July Third, John willfully ignores clues. So frustrating! Must I be so civilian, so base? Needs must. But one last try for subtle. July Tenth, leaving this page open in the hopes that you will read what I have chronicled. If you don’t understand by now then there is no hope for you and I fear you must be put down like lame chattel. I shall await your response in the living room. I’ll be the prat with the commandeered laptop, pointedly not reading the Anglo Baltic News website. All my horrific, basest, disgustingly awful, God make it stop, Love, Sherlock Holmes.”

  
He looked up through his eyelashes, the shyest John had ever seen him. John was so ridiculously besotted at that point it took all his military training not to throw himself at his mad flatmate.

  
“So, does this mean you’re going to have me put down?” John asked.

  
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Sherlock answered seriously, before giggling like an idiot. John joined him.

  
“I really am sorry, Sherlock. I clearly didn’t get that far. I assumed, well, the worst I guess. You said you were deleting me.” As if that excused his actions.

  
“I was. Or I thought I was. Turns out I was just filing you away. You have your own suite in the Palace.” He winked. “I couldn’t get rid of you. That should have been my first clue.”

  
“Well, we all know you’re shit at clues,” John said.

  
“Just so.” He smirked. “You can thank Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft separately for knocking sense into me.”

  
“Mrs. Hudson I understand, but Mycroft? Really?”

  
“Yes. Our Landlady, not housekeeper, was less subtle, much sweeter about it, of course. Mycroft threatened to send you back to Afghanistan.”

  
“How is that subtle?”

  
“He didn’t use words.”

  
Ah. One of those implied conversations they were always having. “Glad to see that one didn’t pan out. I quite like being a civilian again. Though, I'll admit, I do miss pulling rank.” Sherlock actually bit his lip. John’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  
Without looking Sherlock recited, “April Twenty Fourth, Two Thousand Twelve, John pulls rank on Baskerville Corporal. Do Not Delete.”

  
John stared at Sherlock for approximately five seconds before making up his mind. “Prepare yourself. I’m about to do something disgusting.”

  
Sherlock didn’t stand a chance. Not with eighty kilograms throwing him backwards against the couch. He had probably thought about kissing Sherlock sixteen percent of the time spent knowing Sherlock, but actually doing it was something else. You never really anticipate what the other person is going to taste like (Toothpaste. He must have prepared for this eventuality, the smart arse) or how they will really react to you (Surprisingly enthusiastic for a supposed virgin) or even how their clothes get in the way (How many buttons does this shirt have?!) The fantasy makes everything simple. The reality is better.

  
“Much better,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s mouth.

  
“Quite,” he growled back. Oh, to have that voice delivered directly into your mouth.

  
“God, your voice is like dark chocolate.”

  
“John, you’re shit at poetry. I’m already a sure thing, there’s no point.”

  
“I wasn’t trying to..oh, you are still such a knob.” He thrust his tongue back into Sherlock’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. _Virgin, my arse,_ John thought when Sherlock sucked at his tongue. Oh, the things they were going to do. John finally managed to get Sherlock’s shirt unbuttoned. He ran a hand over his chest, marveling at the smooth, taunt skin over slim muscle. So different than what he was used to but by no means any less seductive. Especially when his beloved flatmate made those delicious, rumbling noises.

Appreciative, just like a cat. When John inserted a thigh between Sherlock’s legs, he was rewarded with his flatmates uninhibited groan, the flexing of his hips as he rubbed unerringly against him. John went a little mad. He wasn’t sure what happened but suddenly they were on the floor and John was clawing at Sherlock, his shoes, socks, trousers, and pants all went flying.

  
“John!” He was rewarded again when Sherlock’s back bowed over the floor, heels digging into his back. Only once before had John done this for another man, a drunken Uni experiment. Inexperience didn’t seem to matter to Sherlock. He had always wondered, who knew better what a man wanted than another man? Why hadn’t he been doing this more often?

  
“Ah! No! Unacceptable!” Sherlock bellowed.

  
John came off Sherlock’s prick with an insulted pop. “Excuse me?”

  
He didn’t have any more time to be hurt. Sherlock was ripping his shirt off, yanking at his trousers and pants and suddenly Sherlock was on top.

  
“Like this. I want to see you like this,” he explained.

  
“No complaints then?” John nervously asked.

  
“I’ll let you finish later. Like this,” he said again and then he caught John between his enormous hand and his own saliva covered prick and John saw stars.

  
“Yes! Like that! Christ,” he ground out. Unbelievable. He couldn’t believe it, this was actually happening. Not some fevered dream. Not some late night, no one will ever know, fantasy. Real. Really Sherlock. He looked up, caught his best mate looking down at him and lost his hold on his control.

  
“Sherlock!” He cried out, shocked at the intensity of it.

  
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed. He leaned down and bit John, right between the shoulder and neck, and John felt the slick heat of both of their ejaculates across his stomach. They both panted and huffed, not an unknown sound to 221b, but new in this context.

  
“Fucking Hell,” John managed.

  
“Agreed.”

  
“I think we’re glued together,” John mumbled.

  
“I’m sure I don’t care.”

  
“Might make solving cases a bit more difficult.”

  
“What cases?”

  
John looked up at that. He got an eyeful of black curls for his trouble. “I think that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  
“Don’t get used to it. My Super Ego will be coming back online momentarily.”

  
“Super Ego is a fitting title for it.”

  
“I was referring to…”

  
“Sigmund Freud’s structural model for the psyche. Yes, I know. I did have a course on Psychology at Uni.”

  
“And you learned to perform fellatio at Uni as well,” Sherlock mumbled.

  
“Clever you,” John mumbled back. They might have fallen asleep like that if it hadn’t been the sudden ringing of John’s mobile. They both groaned. Sherlock fished it out of his trousers and slapped it down onto John’s chest with a thud.

  
“It’s just Mike. It can wait. He’s probably checking in after the ridiculous message you left him. Thanks for telling every person we know that we had a domestic, by the way.”

  
“I needed some way to get you home. You wandered around Regret’s for three hours.”

  
He realized his mistake right away.

  
“You followed me?”

  
“Of course I followed you! You ran out of the flat like someone was chasing you, I merely played the part of the villain.”

  
“I’ve asked you not to do that. It’s nerve wracking.”

  
“John,” Sherlock said. He didn’t finish right away, first he sat up. John tried to focus on the conversation, and not on Sherlock’s naked body still half pressed against his. It was a hard battle. “John,” he tried again, effectively drawing John’s eyes back up to his face, which was distracting in its own right.

  
“What?”

  
“You’re always the one to say to me, ‘Put yourself in their shoes, Sherlock. Think about how that makes them feel.’ Do you understand what it was like for me today to think, for what might have been a few brief hours, that I had poured my heart out to you and you ran, practically screaming, for the door?”

  
John blinked. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sorry. Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

  
“I understand, of course. You didn’t finish reading it. But for a moment in time, I was wrong. I had deduced that you would finally understand, that you would see that I reciprocated your feelings, and we could just be together. And then you left. I was wrong. For a brief moment in time, you didn’t love me. I was wrong,” he whispered the last. John had no choice but to pull Sherlock back down to the floor and cover him in kisses. If someone had woken him this morning and told him the itinerary for the day, he’d have laughed them out of the flat. Kissing Sherlock Holmes on the tip of his nose, indeed.

  
He leaned back to look Sherlock in his incredible eyes. “I do love you. You were right.”

  
“I know.”

  
That shocked a laugh out of John. “Don’t ever change, Sherlock. Don’t ever change.”

 

Epilogue

The next night…

 

“Jesus, we have seventeen new messages between the two of us,” John informed his partner in crime-solving.

  
“Play them now, or not at all. I feel the lull between sexual congress ever shortening.”

  
John snickered at that. He played his first. The first was from Sarah, checking in to see if everything had gone all right. She was being cheeky. She had guessed long ago where John’s affections lay, hence why their brief relationship hadn’t worked. She was a smart gal. The second and third from Harry. She sounded disturbingly careful, a precursor to inebriation. The next from Mike again, wanting to get together to hear all about the fight. Nosy git. That was all from his phone. He punched in Sherlock’s number and waited. One from Molly, letting Sherlock know that ‘That diseased pancreas you wanted is in’. Nothing to do with ‘The Fight’ as it had been termed by their friends and family. Molly was a dear. Next from the British Government himself. “Congratulations.” That was it.

  
“Creepy fucker,” John commented. Sherlock hummed in agreement. “You did get all the cameras, right?”

  
“As far as I know,” he mumbled, unconcerned. John gave a shiver and looked around Sherlock’s bedroom. Their bedroom now, he supposed. He couldn’t imagine going back upstairs for any reason. The next message was surprisingly from Harry.

  
“Hey, you. You, you utter prick. My brother deserves better than you. Ugh! I can’t believe-” the message cut off unfinished. John groaned in defeat. Unlucky for him, the next ten messages were all from Harry. She got drunkenly more belligerent with each passing message.

  
“He could have any man in the world and he picked you? You! And you deleted him? Who the fuck do you-”

  
“I know what it’s like not to deserve his love. That’s a Hell I’m GLAD you’ll get to kno-”

  
“You think you’re so fucking superior, don’t you? So high and mighty. My brother is a _God Damn Hero_. What are you? A high functioning mental, that’s what you are!”

  
“Oh, God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry for her,” John tried to apologize, but Sherlock just shushed him. He was rapt with attention, listening to Harry’s drunken rants.

  
“...Fuck you.”

  
“That one wasn't very articulate.” Sherlock smiled in amusement.

  
Eventually, they got to the last message. John thought he would be glad to find it was from Mrs. Hudson and not his sister. He was wrong.

  
“Hello, dears. Mrs. Hudson, you know. I, um, just wanted to say hello and to let you know I’m so happy that you made up. It upsets me so when you fight. I, also, um, would like to apologize for the, um, well, how do I put this? The walls are so very thin, dears. Is that enough of a hint, Sherlock, dear? Yes, that should do. This is by no means a suggestion, just thought you’d like the reminder. Come see me when you’re done. I’ll make dinner. Just this once.”

  
John didn’t hear the last bit. He had his head buried too far under the pillow. He mumbled for Sherlock to get his Browning from upstairs and finish him off.

  
“I’ll do no such thing. Walk upstairs.” He scoffed. “You’re mad.”

  
“Turns out you can die from embarrassment. I’m dead. I have died.”

  
“And people say I’m the dramatic one.”

  
“Our elderly landlady heard us having a twenty four hour sex session. What’s not to get dramatic about?”

  
“It won’t be the last,” he said, nonplussed. Simple as that.

  
“Huh.” Nice way of thinking about it he guessed. “Go make us some tea.”

  
“What?”

  
“You heard me. I’ve been tea deprived for hours.”

  
“I don’t make tea,” he stated regally.

  
John smiled. He was hoping he would say that.

  
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of this bed, march into that kitchen and brew me the best damn cup of tea I've ever tasted or so help me God, I’ll teach you the meaning of the words Corporal Punishment!” John delivered the command, pulling from years of Military experience and dealing with men cocky enough to think John’s stature had any bearing on his ability to fight.

  
Sherlock’s eyes nearly fell from his skull, he was so shocked. Suffice it to say, no tea was made that night. But that was okay. John hadn't really expected any.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, that was fun!  
> Comments welcome!  
> Find me on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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